Movie Oneshots
by vballmania23
Summary: Yassen-Centric oneshots mostly based on movie 'verse. "'You left your mission incomplete.' His boss’s voice was carefully even, every syllable precisely measured. Yassen knew the danger signs..." On temporary hiatus until inspiration strikes again.
1. Accidental Success

**A/N:** I just saw the Stormbreaker movie, and while not one of the greatest movies I've ever watched, it was mildly entertaining to a bored teenager. There were two things I loved about it, though (not including the hotness of the main character). One – the funny version of Alan Blunt. Especially when he pops up from under the screen and gives his "We don't trust him" speech. Second – Yassen Gregorovich. He never really interested me other than as a way to keep the plot moving, but his character in the movie just caught my eye. So this is the first of a few (ok, currently only two) oneshots that should go along with movie-canon but incorporate some book details (since the movie doesn't give us a lot of information about him).

* * *

He hadn't _meant _to fall out of the helicopter. Nobody ever did when it was zooming over an isolated country road. The pilot was new and had a quicker, jerkier style of flying that is predecessor. He had been leaning out to try and find the best angle to shoot his target when the man had jerked the joystick over, and the next thing Yassen knew he was _whooshing _downwards, curses in all the languages he could think of flowing through his head.

Except, he'd gone parachuting before and the way he remembered it, freefalling was generally bumpier. And you generally did not continuously move with the helicopter as you plummeted downwards to your impending parachute-lacking demise.

The slight pressure on his feet drew his attention upwards, where a thick cord was wrapped and impossibly knotted around his legs. He couldn't help but smile some – who would have thought cords meant to load and unload cargo in the air would work so well as a safety?

The pilot must have thought is was intentional, because he jerkily flew closer and closer to the car. Yassen swung limply, watching his target get closer and closer, silently adding to his list of _Why I Shouldn't Kill My New Pilot (Yet)_. Luckily, the man was able to fly steadily when necessary, and managed to sink the helicopter down to where Yassen's head was level with the window of the car without braining the Russian on the metal roof.

In front of him, the target was staring at the road slightly glassy eyed. He assumed that there was some sort of music or other sound playing because a helicopter, while fast and convenient, wasn't exactly the most discrete. Apparently, his target's powers of ignorance didn't extent to an upside-down head flying next to his window, and has he glanced out to admire the countryside, his eyes widened with surprise.

Yassen couldn't resist a smirk as he reached for the two pistols strapped to his thighs (much harder when one is hanging from a helicopter) and maintained eye contact as he held the gleaming metal out and fired a shot from each. The glass shattered and his target became a mess of blood and gore. The car swerved violently as Yassen was flown away.

While the pilot tried to figure out how to get him back into the helicopter, Yassen reflected on his accidental discovery. It was clean, allowed a confirmation of the target's death, kept the helicopter from landing, and prevented him from accidentally leaving any sort of physical evidence in the form of fibers. Definitely something he would have to improve on and try again. All in all, mission accomplished. Now if only he could get back into the damn plane before all of his blood rushed to his head.


	2. Trademark

**A/N:** Another (completely unrelated) option to the whole reason Yassen hangs out of planes – perhaps it wasn't an accident, but a trademark he'd used before. And thanks to True Colors for spotting my math mistake :)

* * *

It was an hour after the funeral when the report concerning Agent Rider's assassination landed on Alan Blunt's desk. He would have immediately rung for Mrs. Jones, had the woman not been sitting opposite of him and they often did when they discussed business. Blunt thanked the slightly nervous secretary (it's not every day you see the head of MI6 when you're a new worker) and neglected the socially accepted thin smile as he dismissed her with a serious face. He turned over the crisp page still slightly warm from the fax machine and laid it out on his pristine desk, edges perfectly parallel to the rectangular wood beneath it. The office was silent but for the shallow breathing its occupants as Blunt silently read it, then turned it exactly one hundred and eighty degrees so Mrs. Jones could study it. His face was impassive as she leaned forward to study the black letters stretching across the page, oddly cut hair falling into her face. Once done, Mrs. Jones settled back into her chair. The two exchanged a meaningful glance. Speaking was unnecessary; the meaning was clear to both of them. _Yassen Gregorovich was back from Korea._


	3. Zipline

A/N: The zip-line incident from Wolf's POV.

* * *

We arrived at the top of the cliff, huffing and gasping from exertion. Before us, the lake shone with a deep blue glare, its beauty a sharp contrast to the roughly built cabins and tower at its banks. I took a moment to admire the view - in a place as hellish as Brecon Beacons, one learned to admire what you could. However, we still had work to do. A cable extended from our cliff across the lake and ended at one of the wooden towers on the other side. Once my entire unit got across, the course would be complete and we would head for the mess hall for dinner. The mere thought of food made my stomach growl - other than a quick breakfast and small snacks through the course, we had nothing else to eat the entire day.

The four of us were too out of breath to speak, but Eagle headed over to the last obstacle and clipped his make-shift handlebars on. It was perhaps the only thing we'd been allowed to prepare before we were sent off, so we took our time in making them functional. ("Perfection is crap! It's a lie!" the sergeant would bellow. "Just make sure it works!") Eagle launched himself off the cliff, and slid smoothly down to the building. I could hear the solid _thunk_ of his combat boots echoing faintly as he dropped heavily onto the tower platform.  
Behind me, a lighter pair of combat boots clomped up the last rise of the hill. I couldn't keep a grimace off my face. The boy had managed to complete the obstacle course this far, despite our attempts to leave him far behind. The Sergeant had assigned him to K-Unit, but he pulled me aside the day after. "He's supposed to be working with you fellas, but I don't want him gumming up the exercises. Do what you normally do, and let him worry about keeping up." I told my unit, and we took those orders to full heart. Brecon Beacons was a place where we trained to survive, not a place where spoiled boys spent their holidays. For us, this training would literally save our life. We didn't want a boy mucking up our operations, and we made it known.

We pushed ourselves harder than ever before, determined to leave Cub in the dust. None of us wanted him there, and we looked forward to the day when he finally realized he couldn't keep up with fully-grown SAS trainees. And if he managed to keep up - well then who knows what he would tell his friends back home, brag about how he was stronger than the SAS. He might even demand his father send him back for next vacation! We had a reputation to maintain, and right now my unit and I had to put our best foot forward and show an example. We were the elite - the best soldiers Britain had to offer. We would_ not _be on the same level as a rich teenager who only got to the camp by a rich father (or so everyone said).

It was because of that determination and a quickly forming plan that I turned and smiled nastily at the approaching Cub. "All right, Double-O-Nothing." I barked. "You're next." Confusion flashed across his face, before he glanced at the cable attached to the nearby tree. His expression smoothed as his gaze followed the cable to the tower where Eagle waved. _All clear!_ He was signaling. _Send the next guy._ Cub didn't talk as he moved towards the cable, fishing out his handlebars - but then again, he rarely did. It was one small mercy. It was obvious he had used a zip-line before, because he clipped himself to the cable with not trouble or hesitation. I didn't speak as I moved next to him and attached another cable. I could practically see his thoughts - first confused then dismissing it as SAS protocol. I turned, tying the other end onto the same tree as the original cable before nodding at Fox. He was giving me a piercing look, communicating in that silent way my unit has been developing. He knew what I was planning. I glared back, unrepentant, so he turned and gave Cub a 'helpful' shove.

I couldn't help the grin worming its way onto my face. I watched the line I had attached (which was significantly shorter than the distance across the lake) slowly uncoil from the heap I'd left it on the ground and snake off the edge. "And, stop!" I muttered, as the line pulled taught. Cub jerked to a rough halt, midway between the cliff and the tower, dangling over the lake. Snake, who hadn't seen my actions, looked around in confusion. His sharp eyes caught sight of the second cable I'd attached, and he gave a small laugh. "Brilliant," he commented.

The line jerked as Cub kicked his feet - a futile attempt to start moving again. The three of us on the cliff made no move to release him. How would he like to take that home to his father? Maybe dangling a hundred or so meters above a lake would convince him not to come back. Cub's head tilted up as he examined the cable, and Snake yelled before he could look too closely and realize what we'd done. "Aw, come on!" He bellowed, making sure to yell loud enough that the people on the other side of the lake would be able to hear him. Other units, heading towards supper, had stopped to watch the dangling figure. Now that they heard Snake mocking Cub, he was fair game. They joined in, heckling him, yelling insults and crappy advice. I grinned with success, but it was short-lived as one voice roared above the others.

"Come on, Cub!" The Drill Sergeant (_wasn't he supposed to be testing another unit out in the field today?)_ bellowed from below. "Move! This isn't a school playground!" Fox and I exchanged a panicked look. Ignoring Cub was one thing - actively sabotaging him put us in a whole other category of trouble. If the Sarge figured out he had deliberately rigged the line so our fifth 'member' was stranded, there would be no end to the punishment. I hurriedly lunged for my boot-knife to cut the cable, thankful that from the Sergeant's spot down on the shore it was indistinguishable from the main one. He didn't know what we had done, so he assumed it was Cub's fault. If it had been one of my other unit members, I would have bristled at the thought of the Sarge blaming them for my mistakes - but this was Cub, and I was happy to let him have the blame. However, if he didn't move soon, the Sarge would eventually find out the_ real _reason.

"Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up!" Fox chanted, practically hopping up and down with nerves. Of the four of us, he feared the Sarge the most. I sent him a glare as my hand wrapped around the hilt of my knife, and jerked it up - only to have it stubbornly refuse to move. I swore, looked down at my boot, and tried to yank the knife out again; it refused to budge. I think Fox nearly had a heart attack. "Come on," he practically moaned." I spared a moment to glare at him before refocusing on my task. "Stop yelling!" I hissed. "The Sarge can't see from down there, but if you keep bellowing he'll damn well hear about it! Besides, Cub's not exactly in a position to rat on us. He's stranded above a lake, and it's not like he's going to let go or anyth-" I stopped as the cable between me and Fox shot upwards. It was rather like some great weight had been released. Fox and I realized what had happened at the same time, and we shared a disbelieving look, refusing to look at the zip-line. He couldn't be _that _psychotic…

"Oh, bloody hell." I heard Snake, the quietest in the unit, murmur.


	4. Like Father, Like Son

**A/N:** This originally was elaborating on a deleted scene in Stormbreaker, when Yassen yells at a guard for shooting at Alex, but then just kinda encompassed that whole scene, with some selective editing on my part.

* * *

Yassen Gregorovich knew everything that happened in Darrius Sayle's house. He knew every dirty, intimate detail of his employer's life, every story of the guards. He knew because it mattered, because it was his job to keep the operation running as smoothly as possible and one couldn't predict how traitors would act unless they knew the traitor. However, one thing Yassen hadn't known was that a spy had already been in their midst – a teenage one going by the alias of Kevin Blake.

He stared at a wall, deep in contemplation. It was unacceptable, his oversight. One's age alone did not determine whether they were a threat or not. Not to mention that this specific one, this Alex Rider, brought up many memories he'd rather have left buried. Just the boy's name revived long-lost conversations with his mentor and deceased friend, who had carried the same last name. _You probably don't know, but I have a family. A wife, back in England. We're having a baby soon. _He could remember the affection in John's voice, the hopeful tone of a soon-to-be parent coloring his normally emotionless words. _They say it's a boy, and we've decided to call him Alex._

Alex… Yassen didn't believe in coincidences, especially in his line of work, and especially with anyone bearing the last name of Rider. The man had the luck of the devil himself, and his son would probably be no less. After all, a teenager would definitely need Rider luck to successfully evade Yassen's vigilant and highly trained informants, not to mention all of the other personnel scuttling around every nook and cranny. They might have overlooked the boy at first, but it would be quite obvious he was a spy if he was found snooping around.

Lithe fingers gently skimmed the edges of the photograph (taken from one of the security cameras in the house) as he mentally compared the boy pictured against the fuzzy memory of John. The nose was the same, and the challenging set to his jaw identical. His eyes were a muddy brown instead of John's shuttered blue and the hair was lighter – but he didn't know what the man's wife looked like. However, if one looked from a different angle, the resemblance could just be a trick of the light. Yassen sat motionless in his room, unsure of whether the boy could truly be John Rider's son, and finally nodded off at his desk with the picture still clutched in his fist.

The next day Yassen woke with a crick in his neck, and forcefully cast out any thoughts of the teenager as he began his day. The boy had simply disappeared yesterday, and Sayle hadn't been able to find hide nor hair of him. He was probably long gone, so it wasn't Yassen's problem anymore. He didn't need to know, because he didn't have to do anything about the kid. So confidently ignoring that twinge of curiosity – did John really have a son? How much would the boy be like him? – Yassen continued on with his day untroubled. There was money to be made, a client to please, instruments of mass murder to be set.

Unfortunately, the topic he was trying to forget all day became damn near impossible to ignore when two of his guards came into the biohazard room, one certain teenage spy held at gunpoint between them. He examined the boy before him. A picture never really managed to capture a person's true personality, not like the way a frank once-over could. Alex had the arrogant tilt to his head that John had always worn when working with hostiles. He had that easy grace and the innate awareness of everything around him.

As he studied Alex, Yassen instinctively _knew_. Alex Rider _had_ to be John Rider's son, and that certainty brought wild ideas to life. He could never see his old mentor again, but perhaps he could return the favor and train John's boy in the trade. They could work together, just like old times before John had been revealed as a spy and a traitor.

But it wouldn't do if he gave away the game yet. Alex would have to be tested, examined, purged of any barbs MI6 had managed to sink into his skin. Yassen idly wondered if he could lie as well as the father as he began the standard spy interrogation questions. "What are you doing here?" He demanded. There was no answer, just the unchanging (achingly familiar) arrogant glare. "Who are you?"

"I'm Kevin Blake. I was invited here." His eyes held just the right mix of worry, fear, and confusion. His tone was perfectly even, like one who was convinced he had done nothing wrong, and he shrugged his shoulders in the self-entitled way of a spoiled teenage computer genius. Yassen smiled, one of his reserved on-the-job smiles, but he was sure that there was pride leaking out of his expression. "It's a good act," he complimented. "You do it very well."

The boy's father was the same way, such an excellent liar that nobody had ever suspected his treachery. They both possessed that innate skill at lying that made them such dangerous spies. Granted, Alex's act was still a tad rough around the edges, but good for a boy. He needed to work on keeping what he was really feeling hidden and not letting them mingle with his projected ones. Yassen could see that the worry and fear were genuine, and next to those honest emotions the fake ones could be easily identified.

"But you should not have come here," he continued. The pride vanished, as well as the smile. Perhaps with a few more years and some experience under his belt, Alex Rider would be as formidable as his father. But he was still in school, only 14, and was severely outmatched in nearly every aspect. He felt a slow simmer of rage building underneath his skin. MI6 had no business recruiting his mentor's son at such a young age. Making an immature teenager choose so early would only lead to complications. Yassen didn't deny that he would like to train the boy and would do anything he could to influence which side he chose, but in the end, it was just that - a choice. Alex needed a few more years to solidify his decision and commit fully to whatever that path was. Force the issue, tie him to a side without his consent, and he would rebel.

Yassen was so deep in thought he hadn't noticed the tense silence that filled the air. Alex, on the other hand, felt every moment of it. The only noise was the slow humming of the conveyor belt, and the hiss as whatever was in the neon green tubes was injected into the Stormbreakers. "We can talk," he blurted out. Yassen watched as Alex shifted uncomfortably, and was surprised to note that he had missed the desperation before, lurking around the corners of Alex's demeanor. It was only that rash offer that made him take a closer look at the slightly hunched shoulders waiting for a violent blow and the constantly shifting eyes looking for a way out.

Dirt smudged Alex's face, and bruises were blooming where the skin was visible. He wasn't a man (boy) in control of the situation, or had any idea of what to do. Alex was cornered and he knew it, but had no idea how to handle it. Combine that with the Rider family's damned luck, and apprehension swooped down on Yassen. He slowly advanced closer, movements slow and arms behind his back to send a message of non-violence. "I don't think so." No, he didn't want to talk. He wanted to get Alex as far away from the deadly virus-laden vials standing only a few meters away before he -

Curses in his native tongue flew through his head as Alex pushed away a man and leapt up onto the assembly line, unhooking one of the deadly containers. In that instant, Alex's whole demeanor changed. He became confident, assured of his safety. The scientists and technicians scattered away like leaves in a breeze. "Yes we can," he stated brazenly. Yassen raised a hand even though he wasn't close enough to attack, and the guards clicked the safety off their weapons. He warned Alex, "Don't drop that," and wasn't sure if it was because he didn't want to die from a painful untreatable virus or because he didn't want Alex riddled with bullet holes. And then, to keep up appearances, he added. "Put it back."

Alex turned and held the vial next to the machine, hesitating as if actually trying to figure out how to pop it back in, and Yassen nearly gaped with disbelief. Was his mentor's son really that stupid? Except, the next moment he had jumped down, holding the glass in a loose outstretched grip. Yassen berated himself. Of _course_ he wasn't. One would only need instinct to know not to put the vial back. "The way out," Alex demanded. "Now." Yassen made a show of reaching for the vial and frowning threateningly as it was drawn away before 'reluctantly' point to the almost hidden side door. There were other exits, sure, but that was the quickest route outside.

He advanced down the steps as Alex backed up, then lunged as the _idiot _boy tossed the vial up into the air. Luckily it was a high arcing throw – more intended for distraction rather than destruction – and he caught it easily. However, once the vial was back in friendly hands the guards didn't hesitate to open fire on the fleeing teenager. Yassen lunged at the nearest guard.

"What are you doing? Stop you idiot, you can't fire bullets in here!" The guards stopped shooting, and he could hear the pounding footsteps as Alex sprinted away. There was no blood in the doorway, so he assumed the boy had escaped unharmed. He took a moment to thank Sayle's paranoia. If it had been any of _his _people, they would not have missed. He marveled at the typical Rider luck before focusing on his current predicament. Yassen's workers would begin to question his loyalty if he just demanded they let a spy escape with no rationale. He scrabbled for an excuse, but luckily the guard handed him a perfect distraction.

"O-of course," he stuttered. "I'm sorry. I won't do that again." Immediately after he spoke, the guard froze and turned to face the assassin eye-to-eye. A muffled whimper passed through his lips; he knew what was coming. Yassen simply raised his eyebrows, fixing the man with a cold stare. "No," he agreed. Scorpia didn't forgive and as far as Yassen was concerned, one less person who could recognize Alex would be a good thing. "You won't."

* * *

Minutes later, while the janitors were cleaning blood off the floor of the assembly room, Yassen stood on the roof watching as Alex disappeared in the distance, hanging to the helicopter with a magnetized harpoon gun. Alone, up where there were no cameras or people to see him, he allowed himself the luxury of a true smile. Yes, Alex was just like his father. In a few years maybe he would find the boy and offer him a place at his side. For now, all he wanted to do was make sure the boy stayed alive to reach that age. He reached into his back pocket for his cell, dialing a number from memory.

"Sí."

He looked down at his workers, scurrying back and forth as they re-loaded all the equipment. Soon there would be no trace of his organization left - just empty rooms and Sayle's dead security guards. His people had already received their orders, and he didn't need to be there for the final stages. "Pick me up on the rooftop," he told the pilot. "We're going to London."


	5. Mission: Incomplete

**A/N:** This is post-movie, and the last of my planned oneshots. I'll still up this if another Yassen story hits, or if you have any ideas you'd like to throw my way for more chapters. Feel free to PM me. As always, please R/R :)

* * *

Rationally, Yassen knew they were going to ask. But irrationally, in that small corner of his brain that still hoped for many irrational things, he wished that they would just let it be, assume one thing or another, and forget about Alex. As he delivered his report, he tried to keep it as vague as possible. _The spy. The agent. The undercover. _He mentioned that Alex was pretending to be the winner of the magazine contest; he didn't give an age or list any physical characteristic. He spoke about him casually, like he was just another low-level spy who got a break due to the idiocy of Sayle.

Scorpia and MI6 had somewhat of an understanding. Out of missions, they wouldn't hunt down each other's agents. So if he seemed like just another grunt, they wouldn't actively search for him. But if they found out Alex was just a boy and realized he wasn't officially employed by MI6, they would consider it perfectly reasonable to send a fully-armed death squad to his house. He wasn't officially employed by MI6, so Scorpia couldn't officially break the agreement.

The report went smoothly - too smoothly, as it turned out. As his boss gave a silent nod of dismissal, Yassen turned and cautiously headed for the door. Just as the knob was in his hands his employer spoke. "Yassen, what ever happened to the spy? You said he was on the roof with Sayle." Yassen, expression hidden from his employer, winced even as he heard the words. He regained his composure quickly; making sure his voice was smooth and unemotional before speaking. "My orders were to kill Sayle. They said nothing about the spy."

His employer didn't say anything, and Yassen didn't move as the seconds stretched into minutes. He waited, poised for anything, until finally his employer spoke again. "You could have killed the spy with no repercussions. We follow our contract with MI6 as it benefits us too, but during a mission we have the power. You should have killed the man when the chance was available. You left your mission incomplete." His boss's voice was carefully even, every syllable precisely measured. Yassen knew the danger signs.

The argument was nearly out of his mouth before he managed to stifle it. He hadn't signed up to shoot the son of his mentor and best friend. He hadn't signed up to kill innocent children dragged into his world kicking and screaming. However, he didn't speak because then they would _know_. They would realize Alex was just a boy and hunt him down, and some long-lost instinct in Yassen snarled at the thought. Instead he stood there silently, hand resting on the doorknob.


End file.
